People are more relaxed about marijuana in Los Angeles, but roast monkfish
with cannabis purée? No thanks.

In the 1990s it was coriander, a popular little herb that smells and tastes like cheap hand lotion. The Noughties (thanks to Jamie Oliver) were all about parsley, sage and thyme. Then basil made a comeback (impossible to make an insalata tricolore without it) alongside cumin – the social climber’s favourite. Out here in LA, there’s a new herb in the kitchen: cannabis.

Angelenos are more relaxed about cannabis than we are. Come to think of it, they’re more relaxed about most things – possibly because of the cannabis. Go to your doctor with sleep problems, muscular pains, headaches or anxiety, and he’ll give you a prescription for cannabis that you can cash in at the chemist. Consequently, rather than being the preserve of deadbeats and Hunter S Thompson-idolising adolescents, cannabis is smoked liberally by everyone, from blue-collar workers to agents and film stars. Still, the concept – devised by LA-based celebrity chef Laurent Quenioux – of sprinkling a little stardust over one’s dinner is new enough to be considered subversive. Because I’m not talking space cakes and marijuana tea here: I’m talking roast monkfish with cannabis purée, baked potato with cannabis-infused butter and panna cotta served with cannabis-coconut oil. Of course, those trying it at home might be more inclined to stick a sprig on their roast chicken.

According to the LA Times, it’s “less about intoxication than about discovering how the flavours of the herb played with more traditional herbs” and amounts are adjusted “to render the effects of the meal essentially suggestive rather than psychotropic”. Even so, one who has tried what they’re calling “The Herb Dinner” extends the same advice as any etiquette expert: “Don’t eat the garnish.”

********

“I need to hear you verbalise the word 'yes’.” Crouching before her four-year-old on the pavement, Beverly Hills Mom repeats her little phrase. “Nodding isn’t what I want to see, Victor. I need to hear you verbalise the word 'yes’.” BHM’s are obsessed with parenting philosophies – screamingly self-evident child-rearing tactics packaged as ground-breaking ideologies. There are the RIE fanatics (as far as I can gather, the basis of the Resources for Infant Educarers doctrine is to let your child play on his own sometimes); the disciples of Dr Jenn (apparently it’s important for a child to feel good about themselves – Dr Jenn can help by selling you eco-friendly T-shirts on which “feel-good” messages have been printed); and the Petite Protocol school (who knew it was important to teach children to respect their elders?), among others too heinously wishy-washy to mention.

“There’s only one way to deal with the competitive parenting lot,” a British friend and mother tells me, “and that’s to invent a philosophy of your own – preferably devised by some eminent Swiss child psychologist. They’ll spend hours desperately Googling it and then inevitably you get the call: 'Is Dr Shnaffenwassen spelt with two Fs?’”

********

Spare a thought for Nicolas Sarkozy, who not only lost his job on Sunday, but is bound now to lose his wife (can we start an official countdown?). Still, whereas Le Petit Nicolas only has one woman to worry about it, his replacement, new French president François Hollande, has got three. There’s Angela [Merkel], who will have to be dealt with first as they both strive to sort out Europe this week; his no-less-formidable ex-wife Ségolène Royale, who lost against Sarkozy last time round and will have to be given a job (a good one) pronto – and his new partner, Valérie Trierweiler. Unlike Carla, who was never seriously considered to be a hidden political force, Trierweiler is more than a face and a figure. As a Germanist and a journalist, Trierweiler is that most dangerous of things: a woman with a view.